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I knew it was wrong to be racist towards black people from a young age. We learned about Martin Luther King, Jr. in elementary school, and he was a hero of mine. Although I lived in a small town in the South, I didn’t witness a lot of white-black incidents because there were virtually no black people there. There were only three black people in my high school, and, yes, they were all related.

So, I grew up thinking that the Civil Rights movement was a victory, and I lived in a mostly post-racism world. I also believed myself to not be racist.

On my trip home, I got to see some of my oldest, best friends. They have daughters now, a tiny new 12-week-old baby and a clever, magical 8-year-old. My heart stretched and stretched, trying to figure out how to even hold the upwelling of love I felt. I considered the lives they could live, all the possible futures that could come to be.

At night, my soul kept rolling a new question over and over: “What do I want to leave behind?”

The world was already kinda overwhelming to me before Trump. However, my conscience could not abide to sit on the sidelines anymore. I decided be an imperfect, intermittent half-asstivist. I pick action items and events, put them on my calendar and SHOW UP. And I cut myself all kinds of slack.